Six

On Saturday morning Sarah got out of bed early and was relieved to see Sammy sitting at the table, his mouth stuffed with freshly baked challah. Rifke’s head was bent over her Russian/English dictionary, which was dog-eared from years of use. Gogol’s The Cloak was open on the table beside her.

“Feeling better, Sammy?” Sarah asked, tousling his hair.

“Sarah, do you know what reimburse means?” her mother asked, as she wrote the word on her ever-growing list of English words.

“When you pay someone back what you owe them.”

“Mama,” Fanny said, coming out of the bedroom cubicle, “if you use words like that people will think you’re a snob.”

Rifke inserted her list between the pages of the dictionary. “Life is too short to worry about what people think.”

“Charley Weinstein’s mother started a book discussion group at Hull House,” Sarah said. “Maybe you’d like to join.”

Rifke raised her eyebrows. “I have time to go to a book club?” She walked into the kitchen, took eggs out of the icebox, and expertly hit one on the rim of a mixing bowl. Crack!

“Mama, I decided to wear my black blouse with the long black skirt to the dance tonight.”

“Black, black,” Sarah said. “You’ll look like an old lady.”

“I’ll look sophisticated.”

“So you haven’t changed your mind?” Rifke asked.

“About what?”

She smacked another egg. Crack! “You know about what.”

“Mama, you want to keep me closed up in this apartment so I’ll be a nice Jewish old maid!”

“You won’t be an old maid, Fanny.” Rifke cracked another egg. Sarah imagined that she was cracking heads, hers and Fanny’s. Crack, crack.

Fanny put her arms around her mother’s waist. “I really, really want to go, Mama.”

“Go, go. Who needs you here, moping? Your father will pick you up.”

“My friend Frieda’s older brother will walk me home. I told you that twice.”

“Don’t forget I’m registered to take art lessons at Hull House,” Sarah said. “This Tuesday.”

Another egg. Crack.

“I want to go to Hull House, too,” Sammy pleaded.

“You’re not old enough.”

“How do I get old enough?”

Jacob walked in from the shop and Sammy hoisted himself up on his father’s leg as if it were a tree trunk. “Papa, I want to get old enough so I can go to Hull House like Sarah and Fanny. How do I?”

Jacob swung him up in the air. “You are getting older. Every day.”

Sammy cocked his head and listened. “I don’t hear it.”

Jacob set him down on the floor. “Growing older doesn’t make noise. If it did this would be a very noisy house.”

Rifke handed Sammy a quarter of a glass of milk. “This will make you grow faster.”

“Dancing. Art lessons.” Jacob put his arm around Rifke. “Our daughters are growing up, Rifke.”

Fanny grabbed Sammy’s hand. “You don’t need to go to Hull House to dance. Papa, play some music.”

“Yes, Papa, play!”

Jacob smiled. “You want music?” He went into the bedroom and came out carrying his cello, sat down and cradled it between his legs. The strings were old and could easily break. He tuned it cautiously.

“Papa, let me,” Sammy cried. Grabbing the bow, he scraped it across the strings. Sarah and Fanny clapped their hands to their ears.

“Stop!” Fanny begged.

Jacob had to loosen Sammy’s fingers to retrieve the bow. “You need a little practice, boychick.” He placed the bow on the strings and ran through some scales, his fingers moving quickly. Sammy laughed and clapped his hands as he started playing a rollicking Russian drinking song, winking at Sammy as he quickened the rhythm.

Fanny took Sarah’s and Sammy’s hands and began to dance in a circle. Sarah reached for her mother, but Rifke put her hands in her apron pockets. Jacob increased the tempo, then ended the song so abruptly that Sarah and Fanny bumped into each other and collapsed on the couch laughing.

“A song for your mother,” Jacob said. Eyes closed, he rested his fingers on the strings for a moment, then began to play the Yiddish lullaby, “Rozhinkes mit Mandeln.”

Rifke stood motionless, arms across her breast, chin lowered as the plaintive melody filled the room. Sammy began to say something and Sarah raised her finger to her lips to hush him. She was startled to see tears slip from under her mother’s closed lids and run down her cheeks. She couldn’t remember when she had last seen her mother cry.